Poul Anderson - Tau Zero

Sadler’s merriment faded. She gave him a studying look. “You didn’t propose this of your own accord? I’d assumed, you being the only person who’d fenced back on Earth, you wanted partners.”

“It was Constable Reymont’s idea, when I happened to mention my wish. He arranged that stock be issued me to produce the gear. You see, we must maintain physical fitness—”

“And distract ourselves from the bind we’re in,” she said harshly.

“A sound physique helps keep a sound mind. If you go to bed tired, you don’t lie awake brooding.”

“Yes, I know. Elof—” Sadler stopped.

“Professor Nilsson is perhaps too engaged in his work,” Freiwald dared say. His gaze left her, and he flexed the blade between his hands.

“He’d better be! Unless he can develop unproved astronomical instrumentation, we can’t plot an extragalactic trajectory on anything except guesswork.”

“True. True. I would suggest, Jane, your man might benefit, even in his profession, if he would take exercise.”

It was forced from her: “He’s getting harder to live with every day.” She took the offensive. “So Reymont’s appointed you coach.”

“Informally,” Freiwald said. “He urged me to take leadership, develop new, attractive sports — Well, I am one of his unofficial deputies.”

“Uh-huh. And he himself can’t. They’d see his motives, they’d think of him as a drillmaster, the fun would be gone, and they’d stay away by dozens.” Sadler smiled. “Okay, Johann. Count me in on your conspiracy.”

She offered her hand. He took it. The clasp continued.

“Let’s get out of this wet padding and into a wet swimming pool,” she proposed.

He replied scratchily: “No, thank you. Not tonight. We would be alone. I don’t dare that any longer, Jane.”

Leonora Christine encountered another region of increased matter density. It was more tenuous than the nebulina which had caused her trouble, and she ran it without difficulty. But it reached for many parsecs. Her tau shrank at a pace which in her own chronology was stupefying. By the time she emerged, she was going so fast that the normal one atom per cubic centimeter counted for about as much as the cloud had done. Not only did she keep the speed she had gained, she kept the acceleration.

Her folk continued regardless to follow Earth’s calendar, including observances for the tiny congregations of different religions. Each seventh morning, Captain Telander led his handful of Protestants in divine service.

On a particular Sunday, he had asked Ingrid Lindgren to meet him in his cabin afterward. She was waiting there when he entered. Her fairness and a short red gown cast her vivid against books, desk, papers. Though he rated a double section to himself, its austerity was relieved by little except a few pictures of family and a half-built model of a clipper ship.

“Good morning,” he said with accustomed solemnity. He laid down his Bible and loosened the collar of his dress uniform. “Won’t you be seated?” The beds being up, there was room for a couple of folding armchairs. “I’ll send after coffee.”

“How did it go?” she asked, sitting down opposite him, nervously trying to make conversation. “Did Malcolm attend?”

“Not today. I suspect our friend Foxe-Jameson is not yet sure whether he wants to return to the faith of his fathers or stay a loyal agnostic.” Telander smiled a bit. “He’ll come, though, he’ll come. He simply needs to get it through his head that it’s possible to be a Christian and an astrophysicist. When are we going to lure you, Ingrid?”

“Probably never. If there is any directing intelligence behind reality — and we’ve no scientific evidence in favor of that — why should it care about a chemical accident like man?”

“You quote Charles Reymont almost precisely, did you know?” Telander said. Her features tensed. He hurried on: “A being that concerns itself with everything from quanta to quasars can spare attention for us. Rational proof — But I don’t want to repeat stale arguments. We’ve something else on hand.” He tuned his intercom to the galley: “A pot of coffee, cream and sugar, two cups, in the captain’s cabin, please.”

“Cream!” Lindgren muttered.

“I don’t think our food technicians fake it badly,” Telander said. “By the way, Carducci is quite taken with Reymont’s suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“Working with the food team to invent new dishes. Not a beefsteak put together out of algae and tissue cultures, but stuff never experienced before. I’m glad he’s found an interest.”

“Yes, as a chef he’s been slipping.” Lindgren’s garb of casualness fell off. She struck her chair arm. “Why?” burst from her. “What’s wrong? We’ve been under weigh scarcely half as long as we planned on. Morale shouldn’t rot this soon.”

“We’ve lost every assurance—”

“I know, I know. And shouldn’t people be stimulated by danger? As for the chance we won’t ever end our voyage, well, it hit me badly too, I admit, at first. But I think I’ve rallied.”

“You and I have an ongoing purpose,” Telander said. “We, the regular crew, we’re responsible for lives. It helps. And even for us—” He paused. “This is what I wished to talk over with you, Ingrid. We’re at a critical date. The hundred-year mark on Earth since we departed.”

“Nonsensical,” she said. “You can’t speak of simultaneity under these conditions.”

“It’s far from psychologically nonsensical,” he answered. “At Beta Virginis we would have had a thread of contact with home. We would have thought that the younger ones we left behind, given longevity treatments, were still alive. If we must return, surely enough continuity would have persisted that we didn’t come back as utter aliens. Now, though — the fact that in some sense, whether a mathematical one or not — at best, babies whom we saw in their cribs are nearing the end of life — it reminds us too hard, we can never regain any trace of what we once loved.”

“M-m-m … I suppose. Like watching somebody you care about die of a slow disease. You aren’t surprised when the end comes; nevertheless, it is the end.” Lindgren blinked. “Damn!”

“You must do what you can to help them through this period,” Telander said. “You know how better than I.”

“You could do a good deal yourself.”

The gaunt head shook. “Best not. On the contrary, I’m going to withdraw.”

“What do you mean?” she asked with a touch of alarm.

“Nothing dramatic,” he said. “My work with the engineering and navigation departments, in these unpredictable circumstances, does take most of my waking hours. It’ll provide a cover for my gradually ceasing to mix in shipboard society.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’ve had several talks with Charles Reymont. He has made an excellent point — a crucial one, I do believe. When uncertainty surrounds us, when despair is always waiting to break us … the average person aboard has to feel his life is in competent hands. Of course, no one is going to suppose consciously that the captain is infallible. But there’s an unconscious need for such an aura. And I — I have my share of weakness and stupidity. My human-level judgments can’t stand up to daily testing under high stress.”

Lindgren crouched in her seat. “What does the constable want of you?”

“That I stop operating on an informal, intimate basis. The excuse will be that I mustn’t be distracted by ordinary business, when my whole attention must go to getting us safely through the galaxy’s clouds and clusters. It’s a reasonable excuse, it will be accepted. In the end, I shall be dining separately, in here, except on ceremonial occasions. I shall take my exercise and recreation here too, alone. What personal visitors I have will be the highest-ranking officers, like you. We will surround me with official etiquette. Through his own assistants, Reymont will pass the word that polite forms of address toward me are expected of everyone.